


Can We Pretend

by shadows_of_1832 (SaoirseVictoire)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-14 22:36:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21023366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaoirseVictoire/pseuds/shadows_of_1832
Summary: Eponine thinks about the past, its high and lows, and draws a piece of it back into her current reality.





	Can We Pretend

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by P!nk's "Can We Pretend."
> 
> My second Inktober 2019 piece. Can be read as a sequel to "All I want to do is swim, but the waves keep crashin' in," but works on its own.
> 
> Accompanying Art Piece: https://saoirse-victoire.tumblr.com/post/188334029781/files-this-under-reasons-i-shouldnt-be-using-my

Eponine takes a deep breath, staring out the window. The autumn leaves crackle as they brush from the wind, waves of scarlet, orange, and gold fluttering in the trees and across the ground. A bird makes its call in the distance, a sparrow, she thinks, as she catches a squirrel running across the powerline.

From the other room, she can hear the clattering of ceramic and metal, accompanied with the sloshing of water in the kitchen sink. There’s a creaking of one of the cabinet hinges, and if she knows the one, there’ll be a soft thud and some muttered curse words when Enjolras forgets he left it open in a few minutes.

All is normal, nothing new, nothing exciting. A typical, non-working day.

A few years ago, the pair of them would be reckless. College did that to some people, she supposed, and she never thought she would get caught up in that sort of thing and linger in the shadows. Then her friend Marius pulled her into a meeting with a group of his friends whose minds were set on “changing the world,” and she found herself swept up in it all.

Before she knew it, she was researching statistics on the local population, such as on poverty and homelessness and on minorities and discrimination. Then organizing a few of the group’s events. She was attending protests on and off campus, in the local parks and in front of city hall, loud and vocal when needed and quiet and still when necessary.

And she hadn’t expected any of it.

Then there were the nights where the group turned its focus from the political to the recreational. Meeting at one of the local cafes for a large study group or just to hang out and talk. Meeting at the local bars for a drink of two, where things would sometimes get out of hand, whether they got rowdy or got bold and foolish.

She remembers her last year of college, her twenty-second birthday to be exact, that was one of those latter nights. She doesn’t recall how many drinks Grantaire must have passed to her, nor was Enjolras paying attention to how Courfeyrac kept refilling his when he wasn’t looking.

Her mind blacked out from some of the happenings, but there’s pictures to fill in some of the gaps. A one point, she had taken it upon herself to get on top of one of the tables and start dancing, and at some point, Enjolras had followed.

Bossuet at one point had gotten a picture of just their feet (while the reality was he intended to get a full shot but got tripped and fell forward as he snapped the image, if the blurriness of it says anything). Perfectly captured Enjolras’ poor taste in shoes, this particular instance, a pair of black loafers he had made the argument were dress shoes.

She’s pulled from her train of thought when the predicted thud reaches her ears, followed by some harsh muttering.

“You okay?” she calls from the living room.

A pause. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” he says, followed by a few more choice words under his breath.

Her mind returns to the recollections. How different those days were…

Then there were the harsh times.

The nights where she came to him battered and bruised from an argument with her ex, which felt like every night to her; Enjolras wouldn’t press her on anything, someone to talk to and a hand to hold, a good friend only. Then nights where she came to him simply because she didn’t want to be alone or there was something on her mind. The nights where he would go to her, sometimes after some petty argument with his father, that or “some idiot” tried to convince him of realities he knew weren’t true after studying them for months on end.

And there’s the rare violence in the protests. Ones involving pepper spray, knives, and guns. She recalls the time where many of them went to the hospital with more than just a few scratches, the time where Combeferre and Feuilly each took a bullet, the one where Joly broke his wrist when he tripped to help Jehan and Bahorel…and a somewhat unrelated incident where Enjolras was attacked…

And while they’re all scarred one way or another, they’re thankfully all still here; she’s grateful for that.

She flexes her right hand, reminding herself of when she broke a few bones there shielding her face at one of the protests.

But they’ve put such a past behind them. While they still advocate for change now and again, they’ve managed to do it in ways that don’t put their lives in danger like they once did.

Besides, they’ve got more important things to worry about.

A soft whimper comes from the kitchen, and she turns in her seat, just in time to see Enjolras walking into the room, their child in his arms.

“Everything all right?” he asks, rocking back and forth.

“Hm? I’m fine,” she replies.

“You’re thinking about the past, aren’t you?”

She shakes her head, giving him a soft smile. “You know me too well.”

“I doubt that’s a problem, at least in this case,” he replies, walking over, minding the baby’s head when he sits down. “Would you like to talk about it?”

“Not much to talk about,” she replies, her eyes flickering to the sleeping infant, and an idea comes to mind. “Do you…do you still have those old loafers?”

“You mean dress shoes?”

“Those things, whatever they’re called, do you have them?”

His brows furrow. “Probably in the back of the closet somewhere Why?”

She stands on the couch, then stretches out her hand. “This may not be a table, but…”

It’s his turn to smile and shake his head. “Eponine—”

“Can we pretend?”

His eyes flicker to her hand and then their baby. He gets up. She frowns, a part of her thinking he’s forgotten the positive moments of the times. He places the child in the small swing across the room, then returns to joins her.

“Honestly, you surprise me at the strangest of times,” he says, laughing. “But it’s something I love about you, putting in the unpredictability of life.”

The two start swaying on the couch, small steps to keep them from falling. A little different than the rather uncoordinated dancing of her twenty-second birthday. More of a waltz. No music plays, only the soft brush of fabric.

And the little one’s laughter.

“This is probably a bad habit we’re teaching him,” Enjolras murmurs into her ear.

She takes a moment to turn her head and smiles. “It’s all right; we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

He nods, and they return to their small dance.

Something that doesn’t happen every day.


End file.
